Poems by Sean Stiny

Zion Sleight of Hand

by Sean Stiny

From Canary Spring 2024

A Northern California native, Sean lives at the intersection of coastal climate and rolling vineyards in Sonoma County. Outside his window is the daily corridor of Merriam's turkey, black-tailed deer, gray fox, and red-tailed hawk.

By the time we bellied up to the support chains along the final stretch of trail, it was late in the afternoon and we were the last on the cliff. The rain hadn’t relented and a light snow took its stead as we journeyed vertically. The chain-railed lifeline was dripping with rain and the Zion sandstone was damp under our boots. The rock wasn’t iced over so we deemed it feasible, if barely. One slip and jettison of that chain meant certain demise, as fifteen souls previous had realized. As the last hearty wayfarers to tempt the angelic vista on the day Spring consummated Winter, we made it a good way in, felt gratified, then turned tail to hitch a late park shuttle and finally back to the rental utility vehicle to warm our keisters.

A Spring snow proved a worthy display in the Southern Utah morning so we trekked into the high country until midday. Hiking with a white crunch under our boots brought a refreshing change of color and feeling to the ochre and terra-cotta familiarity. Making quick work of cheese sticks and mango slices at a powdery overlook, my wife and I (her a third-grade teacher on Spring break, me a corporate simpleton on PTO) headed to the crammed shuttle for its slow meander through the valley to stop six, the Grotto.

There we began to unfold Zion’s hallowed Angel’s Landing ascent on the first day of Spring, one which brought a sleight of hand with a touch of snow. Hiking permit in hand (er, phone), we sauntered up the sandstone cliff until our breath gave way (mostly mine) and we paused to catch it. Waterfalls improvised their way down every cranny, searching the path of least resistance to the canyon floor. Each cascade had a hundred doppelgangers to behold, a hundred veins open in the gorge, all gingerly eroding their bed of cold sandstone. Here, the rock so steep and dramatic culminates at a crest where “only angels might land” but humans must cling to a chain.

We devoured the soothing quiet on that vernal commencement. The brooks ran swift and icy with endless runoff. Thuds hit the white floor as the pine and juniper boughs sprang back to attention after releasing their weight of snow. A Redhead duck floated down the Virgin River, turning into the thin brown current for a meal seeking dive. We desired to devour it all, every pine, every sandstone wall, every mule deer, every clip of flowing water, every moment in the desert rain and snow.

One can only denigrate Zion N.P. by trying to put words to it. I should leave it at that, but I won’t. The Zion terrain is one hard to fathom, so high are the walls, so red and iron black, how can such a thing be forged from a mostly quiet stream plodding along its forest floor. How can a prickly pear take a beating all summer, then bundle itself in a coat of snow all winter. And the mule deer know the shuttle schedule better than we. Like when the tires brace less human weight late in the day, it’s ok to venture nearer the fresher grass adjacent the road.

If Zion touches the peak of natural splendor, then its Angel’s Landing trail is the peak of the peak. The much revered but oft feared (the end section with its chained hand rails) hike follows the canyon wall up and through a narrow stretch of pines that hold in their canopy a small number of Mexican spotted owls. That stretch, Refrigerator Canyon (little sun reaches the trail here), arrives at an abundance of harsh switchbacks which award resolute hikers to a lonesome vaulted toilet. Instant relief for those in dire straits. From there, the feared chain rail section begins and the acrophobia (heights fear) really takes flight.

Similar to the beleaguered Colorado River (where it flows through the Grand Canyon) and the tribal Havasu Falls, Angel’s Landing requires a permit, proof its explorers are competent enough law abiders. My inner Chris McCandless scoffs while my outer law-abiding self enters the permit drawing the day before and pays the six bucks. Putting government red tape on these wild places tamps down the crowds and raises dollars for shuttle fuel and Ranger salary, but feels the same as collaring a wolf or tagging a bear. That is to say, unnatural. However insignificant a six-dollar permit, it chokes a collar around the trail no different than one around a gray wolf.

As we released our merciless grip from the support chains on the pious landing and stepped back onto horizontal footing, a female mule deer ambled across the trail ahead of us looking for forage. She looked our way with disdain, then spotted a graze worth investigating. Back at the car we peeled our heavily logged clothes down to our skivvies and cranked the heat. A buffalo burger was surely deserved and, after a little pitter patter on our phones, we uncovered Bob and his buffalo burger trading post outside Springdale.

Bob’s defeated looking burger hid its remarkable taste. Surely worn from decades of use, the grill seeped a flavor into the patty that made us exhale with contentment after the first bite. Though, what Bob really wanted to tell us about were his pies. Not one to mince words, he turned to three tables in close proximity and announced, “Listen up, I’m going to describe all the pies to all the tables at once.” Key lime (fresh limes, apparently from Florida), banana cream, a peanut butter chocolate one, and his personal favorite, “Frickin’ brownie pie, cause there’s kids present!” Each table mulled over the options, some choosing banana or lime or both, and each choosing a slice of Bob’s personal favorite. He took the orders, turned to the kitchen, and with the children very much in earshot yelled out, “Three fuckin’ brownie pies!”

The advice of old Ed Abbey rings ever true in Zion. Leave your internal combustion behind, get a scant hundred feet off the road, and see the aimless crowds dwindle to nothing. There is yet still wilderness out there.

It’s difficult though to reconcile the wonder of Zion with the tailpipe soot we spew into its chaste air and the endless RVs searching for dumping ports for their sludge. If only the cell phone denizens taking iPhone polaroids from an open window would stay home, tap Google’s images, and save their emissions. But we were there too, on those shuttles, filling those garbage bins, spewing soot from our much-oversized rental. We all hate the crowds, hate the traffic. But we are the crowds, the traffic. Best to recognize and accept it and not fret too much as we wander the trails in our Lycra hikewear that screams REI chic.

Atop Angel’s Landing, Zion admonishes us with canyon walls endlessly inscrutable, a landscape that can’t be corrupted. Our wonder in their presence is inexplicable as it swiftly rises to a tremble.